Even in a good year, food would run low before the return of spring, and the opportunity to hunt. It had been much worse, the old stories said, before the coming of the horse. Sometimes the People had a Fall Hunt that was less than successful. Then they had gone into the winter moons knowing that someone would die before the Moon of Awakening. In fact, the old name for the Moon of Hunger, it was said, had been the Moon of Starvation.
She shook her head to clear it of such gloomy thoughts. This was not a bad winter. She had seen many that were worse. Much of the time the ground had been bare of snow. There was still plenty of dried meat in the storage area at the back of the lean-to shelter. And the days did seem to be getting longer. At least she thought so.
But it was a tiresome thing. It was late afternoon just now, nearing the end of another uneventful day. Snow, cold, pale sunlight, darkness. Eat, sleep, bring water, wood, keep up the fire …
There had been pleasant times. The child, Gray Mouse, had probably enabled her to keep her sanity. The legends of the People included stories of persons who, isolated and alone, had gone mad in the moons of Long Nights and Snows. She had never understood that. To Running Deer, it had always been pleasant to be alone. Time to think, uninterrupted by the necessities of living. Time to be with the things of the spirit. Like the quest ceremony. She had never taken a vision quest. There had always been other things in her life that required attention. She should have, maybe, after the death of her husband, she had thought later. At the time, it had never occurred to her. Vision quests are for the young anyway, she had convinced herself afterward. Not for an old woman.
That attitude, she realized now as she looked back, had been part of her bitterness. Aiee, how hard she must have made it for her sons! During that time she had refused to even think of anything that might be pleasant, or exciting, or fun. The memory embarrassed her. And she knew now that she had, for a while, lost the joy of being alone.
Gray Mouse had proved to be an intelligent child, one filled with the joy of seeing, hearing, and learning. Their days were filled with endless questions. “Why is grass green? What makes the sky blue? How high is it? Who teaches the oriole to weave her basket nest?” Sometimes Running Deer would throw up her hands in frustration. “Because it is so, child. That is the way it is!”
And Mouse would laugh. Maybe that was all the answer she required, when all was said and done. Upon one thing, Deer could depend … Stories. Every child loves stories, and this one was no exception. Deer had forgotten the joy of a child in her lap or at her knee, the shining, eager face and bright eyes as the story unfolded. She realized now that she had missed much joy in her preoccupation with sorrow. Her grandchildren would have listened to her stories. Dark Antelope, the oldest, had done so when he was small. But soon after, the loss of Walks in the Sun had shattered her world.
Through the autumn moons, as Gray Mouse learned the tongue of the People, Deer had regained the joy of the storyteller. The stories had helped the little girl as she began to use the language that was new to her.
Even with all this good, the depressing darkness of winter began to gnaw at the senses of Running Deer. She began to see how hunters or trappers, cut off from others for a long time, would be reduced to madness. There was a difference. It was one thing to be alone to think, meditate, and pray. It was quite another to be forced to be alone.
She had felt alone at first, because the girl could speak only a little. Soon, however, it was apparent that Gray Mouse was a person. Sometimes a quiet and introspective person, it was true, but who would not be? The child had experienced more horror in her short years than many do in a lifetime. Under it all, the quiet times and times when Mouse whispered restlessly in her sleep, there was a calm strength. A strength, maybe, that lay in her basic curiosity about all things, and her joy in learning them.
For Running Deer, then, it was a fortunate thing to winter with the girl. Each time she began to feel glum and irritable, Mouse would do or say something that would make her smile. When it seemed that the aching in her old bones was more than she could tolerate any longer, there would come a distraction that would cause her to forget. The girl would bring a pretty leaf or a feather and show it with an eagerness that made a small thing like aching knees only a minor nuisance. The childish laughter at the antics of a brood of young foxes, the fascination with the beauty of a snowflake on the dark fur of a buffalo robe … And it was good.
Even so, her spirits were low, and wearing thin. Deer felt that this winter would never end. How many times can one tell the story of how Bobcat lost his tail before it begins to sicken?
“Not that again, child!” she had snapped, only this morning.
She had immediately felt sorrow over the cutting remark, and had tried to repair the damage.
“Maybe later …”
But the damage was done, and the hurt hung between them like the ugly green-gray cloud that carries the storm.
“It is nothing, Grandmother,” said Gray Mouse.
Running Deer knew that it was not true. She had seen the hurt in the child’s eyes. Why had she been so sharp with her refusal? There was no need. She could tell the Bobcat story again, or tell it a hundred times. What did it matter? Well, she would try to make it up this evening, with a story of some sort as they prepared for sleep. She watched the girl and the dog playing along the stream a stone’s throw away.
Gray Mouse would make a snowball and toss it toward the water. Yellow Dog would bound after it. Sometimes he would retrieve it and bring it back to her. Other throws would land the ball of snow in the stream, where it would promptly disappear. Then the dog would splash around in mock confusion. Either way, the rippling laughter of a happy child at play would ring across the snow-covered meadow.
Yes, she must try to think of a special story tonight. Just now … the blue shadow of the ridge to the west was creeping across the valley. She could see it move. The sun on snow could be a painful thing to tired old eyes, but the blue shadow was restful in appearance. It would soon be dark. She built up the fire and called to Gray Mouse to come home.
It would be a moonlit night tonight. Not quite full, but a silvery night, crisp and cold. She checked her fuel supply. Maybe she should try for some fresh meat tomorrow. The deer in the grove there? Aiee, a few bites of fresh liver would be good for her spirit! For now, though, dried meat and pemmican.
“Mouse, could you hand me a bundle of pemmican, there?”
The girl reached for one of the rawhide packs in the rear of the shelter, and then stopped in surprise.
“Aiee, Grandmother! Somebody has been eating our food!”
Running Deer hurried to see, her heart racing. This could be a real threat.
It was true. Some wild creature, possibly a raccoon, had discovered their cache. In the deepening darkness she could not tell yet how serious the loss might be.
They ate, more sparingly than she had planned. She did attempt a story, but her heart was not in it. She slept little that night. Her peace of mind was not helped by the distant song of a pack of hunters who might compete with them for the deer that she had been saving. It was the first time she had heard the sound since they had been in this winter camp.
Wolves.
23
Gray Mouse had settled into her new life with the resiliency of childhood. It was not without problems, however. The language barrier was quickly overcome, with the help of hand signs. But the major task of the young at her age is that of learning, anyway. It was a small step to learning in a different tongue.
The difference in the stories which she had noticed was merely a matter of pleasant diversion now. Sometimes she would share her own version of a story, and this seemed to please Grandmother.
By the time Cold Maker’s first serious thrust had come and gone, their relationship was well established. Sometimes Gray Mouse had to stop and think, to remember that there had once been other people in her life. Her mother and father, many others … a camp with many lodges … Such
thoughts always led to unpleasant memories, which her mind tried hard to block out. Sickness, fever, dead and dying all around, the spotted death. Sounds of mourning, the smell of death …
But memory is kind. That which is good is retained much more easily than the unpleasant. Sometimes it was hard to remember the horrors of the summer, and how she came to be with this grandmother. Her memories of the previous life were those of her mother, holding and rocking her, singing softly … Her father, strong and handsome, playing with her, letting her ride on his back. These memories were good. When Grandmother became impatient with her, she would withdraw into that pleasant part of her past, and as much as she could remember of the happy times.
Some of the grandmother’s actions were completely beyond her understanding. There had been that time when the owl came and sat in a tree near their little camp. It would have been an easy shot, yet Grandmother did not even reach for her bow. Mouse watched in astonishment as Grandmother looked at the evil thing calmly, and even talked to it like a friend. It had been a ritual, almost, like the apology over a kill.
She had said nothing at the time, but later, when Grandmother seemed relaxed and in a pleasant mood, Mouse brought up the matter.
“Grandmother, why did you not kill it?”
“Kill what, child?”
“The owl. It came and sat on the tree, there. An easy shot, no?”
“But one must not kill the owl. He is the messenger from the Other Side. He carries news of the spirit.”
“But Grandmother, we must kill owls. They are bad.”
“No, no, child. They are to be honored.”
“But my father …” Gray Mouse began.
Suddenly, she stopped. There was something wrong here. Had she misunderstood? No, surely not. She clearly remembered the dead body of an owl hanging in a tree where her father had placed it. It will be a warning, he had said. Other evil-doers will see and fear that I will shoot them, too.
But now, this grandmother, the most important person … no, the only person in her world, looked on the owl as a creature to be honored. Why would one honor something evil? A gnawing doubt rose. Mouse hardly dared to consider it, but she could not escape the reality. Grandmother had honored something evil! Was that to say that Grandmother, too, was evil? Fear gripped her.
Mouse seriously considered running away, before Grandmother could do her harm. She could take some of the supplies, hide them, and then sometime as Grandmother slept, leave silently with Yellow Dog. He would take care of her.
The plan did not really get very far, because Mouse had no idea where she would go. Her own people had threatened to kill her. Those others, who had been with Grandmother, were people she did not know. She knew that there were other people, those who planted crops. Growers, Grandmother called them. They were different, somehow. And since the unknown breeds more fears than a known danger, she hesitated to look for refuge among Growers. They might be more dangerous than Grandmother. She did not know where to find them anyway.
Gradually, the idea of running away faded and was forgotten. From time to time Mouse would think of it and then postpone her departure. After all, if there seemed to be any threat, she could leave then, no? Meanwhile, she would have Yellow Dog to protect her from overt harm.
It helped, maybe, that Grandmother had never shown her anything but love and kindness. That is not to say that Grandmother was not quick to correct. Her tongue could be sharp. A thin sheet of ice had frozen across one of the still pools in the stream during one of the cold onslaughts of early winter. Gray Mouse, curious and full of interest, had started out onto the smooth surface. That had unleashed such a tirade from Grandmother that tears rose in Mouse’s eyes. But even then, the girl knew that the scolding was for her safety.
Little by little, the conflicting customs of two traditions were forgotten. Owls do not visit a camp every day. When they were not seen as a reminder, she did not think of the problem. All her life, though, when Gray Mouse saw an owl or heard his hollow call in the night, she would experience a chill of fear, a doubt for her safety.
It is probable that Mouse did not fully understand the real threat for her safety when it came. The empty or damaged storage packs spoke silently of danger to the lives of both of them. Mouse, who had never really known hunger, assumed that Grandmother would merely shoot another buffalo. Even Running Deer was not concerned at first. It was for such an emergency that she had planned on the deer in the brushy timber to the southeast of their camp. It was a nice, healthy herd. She had watched them carefully, always from a distance and well downwind. Seventeen animals. About seven were small, this season’s young., The does could be identified by their closeness to these. At least one big doe had apparently borne twins.
They had watched the strutting and challenge of the bucks when rutting season came and went, in the Moon of Madness. It was only then that the males, seen very little during the summer, became conspicuous by their behavior. They fought, paired off and mated, and began to band together to winter with the does.
Their flamboyant behavior was over now, abandoned with the loss of their antlers in the Moon of Snows. Running Deer thought that she should have little trouble obtaining a deer now. They would stay close in the shelter of the oaks, especially with snow on the ground. Maybe tomorrow, she would try for a kill.
That was the day the wolves came, and filled the evening with their hunting song. Running Deer was concerned. She did not have an unreasonable fear of the wolves themselves. Caution, yes. It would not be wise for a lone person to be out in deep snow when the pack was hunting. That would be asking for trouble. The real danger from the wolf pack, however, was indirect. If the wolves discovered the band of deer in the oak thicket, they would find it as welcome as the humans did.
Running Deer was faced with a dilemma. She did not want to be out while the wolves were hunting. Yet she hoped to kill a deer and drag it to camp before the wolves scattered the little herd.
Yes, she must try, at least. She could tie the dog, leave fuel for Mouse to keep up the fire, and make a quick hunt in the morning.
She settled in for the night, restless and uneasy. Several times she woke, hearing the distant wolf song and wondering … Could she do this?
At dawn she rose, built up the fire, and tested the wind. Yes, it was favorable for her purpose. She tied the dog, explained to Gray Mouse what she was doing, and cautioned the child to stay near the fire. Then she started a circuitous route to take advantage of wind direction. She had heard no song of the wolves for a while now. They had quieted as the moon set. She wondered if they had made a kill.
It took a long time in the heavy snow to maneuver into the position she wanted. She was almost there when she saw the tracks. Quickly she examined the trail left in deep snow … Tracks of two or three deer, running hard for their lives. Alongside were the paw prints of several large wolves. Her heart sank. Why had she seen or heard nothing? It must have been while she slept. And the hunt would be a quiet one. The song is stilled when the chase begins.
The deer, it appeared, had come from the shelter of their winter home, trying to escape into the open where their speed would be effective. She doubted that they would have been successful. She squinted against the glare of the sun on the white distance, but could see nothing. Yet somewhere, there must have been a kill.
And now the deer were scattered. Even if any were still in the area, they would remain alert and alarmed for some time. It would be useless to hunt now. Tired and depressed, she turned back toward the camp. It was remarkable, how much farther it seemed on the back trail than when she had started on her hunt with excited enthusiasm.
The wolves stayed in the area for half a moon. She could hear them in the distance. They must have made several kills, but it was a pack of eight or nine. She had seen them occasionally. A family of that size would need a lot of meat. The thought was depressing, because that was the meat she had counted on for emergencies.
This was rapidly becoming an emerg
ency. Even carefully hoarded, the sticks of dried meat were dwindling. Their corn was gone, and most of the beans. A few more days …
There came a day when Running Deer realized that she had not heard the hunting song of the wolves for several nights. Cautiously, she circled the area, looking for tracks. A light dust of new snow helped in that respect. She found old tracks with powdery new snow in each, but no fresh ones. That was good. She could see no sign of wolves since yesterday’s snow. The bad part, however, was that she saw no sign of deer either before or after the snow. The herd must be gone, chased away or killed by the hunting pack.
Her heart was heavy as she hurried to the patch of oak timber that had been the shelter for the deer. The snow was trampled and packed, with the recent dusting of new snow on top. It had been a good shelter, she saw. Even now, she could feel the warmth of the protection from the wind. There had been no protection from the hunters, though. Here and there, gnawed bones and bloody snow told the tale.
She turned to go and tripped over something buried in the snow. Irritated, she reached for the offending object. It was an antler, shed by what must have been a magnificent buck. Five well-shaped points and a small spur near the base. But since it had been already lost before the wolves came, it would have been ineffective in defense anyway. Protection was found in flight. She wondered if even that had been successful.
“I am sorry, my brother,” she murmured. “I needed your flesh worse than the wolves did, too!”
24
Running Deer waited and watched for deer to return, but there were none. She rationed the remaining food even more meagerly and gave most of it to the little girl. There were constant pangs in the pit of her stomach. Her buckskin dress hung loosely on her bony frame. There had been a time when that body had been one to flaunt with pride, she recalled. But that was a long time ago. It did not seem to matter much now.
Child of the Dead Page 14
